THIS HERE Poem by Esther Jansma

You're walking on the beach: the sea, the horizon,
the sound that fills the bowl of the earth
up to the rim - no, smaller.

You set your shoes in the sand, cowhide,
eroded mountains, the one leaves an impression
behind on the other - no, different.

You're somewhere, it doesn't matter where,
always on the edge, this time between
land and water, it is about now - no,

you're lying on your belly. Sand sings itself onwards,
like water, ribbed. You choose the smallest rib.
Mountain. You choose the smallest grain. Earth.